Writer's Angst

Wow, it's almost a month to the day since I last posted. Well that's better than last time, lol.

1. I've written 2 fan fic stories since I last posted here: Hair Without the Shirt (  Cheveux sans la chemise ) and 10 Things You Never Knew About Severus Snape's Mum. Both are available at fan fiction.net. I'd like to post them here but I still haven't gotten the hang of the formatting. So I guess I'll just have to go with links.

2. I'm still burnt out from all the work I did on Confessions of a Cornwall Grad Chapter 3. ( See Cornwall Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 to catch up. ) So while I have glimmers of Chapter 4 in my head, they aren't amounting to too much.

3. However, I did what I always do when my writer's well runs dry: I made a run to Borders, had my usual green tea latte, bought some new music ( deluxe edition of Alanis Morissette's album Flavors Of Entanglement; the song Orchid made it worth it ), bought 2 new DVDs, and bought a book on Angels. All purchases were made after I quaffed latte ( and snarfed plain bagel with butter ), while sitting peacefully in the cafe and killing a chapter in my re-read of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell.

4. Alanis' deluxe album has a cute ( maybe a little too precious! ) song about tequila on it. It's fun. Made me wonder what Severus Snape would get up to if Demeter could get him drunk enough. I think I just might have stumbled across an opening scenario for Cornwall Chapter 4...

5. I'm consumed with angst over an open house I'm scheduled to attend this coming Saturday. It's for people interested in getting an MFA in Creative Writing, among other majors. I could apply while there because the fee is waved. But I refuse to do so. First because I don't really have enough time or energy. Second because I'm scared. And third because I REFUSE to rush. Last time I did something like this I rushed and it didn't work out. Now I'm taking my sweet-ass time.

6. I've been inundated with thoughts and images and sounds for chapter 2 of The Healer's Apprentice. I'm feeling the need to write this chapter - which would take away from Cornwall. But Healer's has languished longer than Cornwall, albeit it only has 2 reviews. What makes it harder is that the emotional architecture is filling itself in. I've been doing LOTS of work with Kate Bush's classic album The Hounds of Love ( especially the songs Under Ice, Waking the Witch, Jig of Life, and Hello Earth ) as well as her sublime latest album Aerial, especially the second disc A Sky of Honey. BRILLIANT work. Add in Sting's The Soul Cages and I pretty much have nearly everything I need. I've been alternating lately with Sade's Love Deluxe, especially her gorgeous instrumental track, Mermaid.All of this is rattling around in my head to help me construct the character of Ophelia Broomall, my - hopefully NOT Mary Sue - original character love interest for Severus. Yes I do need a life, now that you mention it...

7. I've made tremendous, although still nascent, progress on my original story. Right now I'm calling it Alice Darkly and that's all I can say about the title. But I've created 2 characters who I think are the most powerful I've ever created. And neither of their names shows up in a Google search. So they're ALL MINE * cackles evilly *

8. I feel a change coming. And I don't know if it's for good or ill. This sounds flaky but...astrologically my sun is in Scorpio and, more importantly, my moon is in Pisces. I'm one of those folks who can sense atmospheres in a room or sometimes tell who's on the phone when it rings before I pick it up. Yeah. And the spidey- I mean Pisces signal is saying something's looming on the horizon. And you know I've had ENOUGH pain in my life. I REALLY don't want or need another dose right now. God has been surprising me with a lot of good things lately. I hope He keeps up the pattern.  I'm just not ready for tears again...

Amazingly, this blog is still alive...although just barely.

Also amazingly, I've completed chapter 3 of Confessions of a Cornwall Grad. Let's see if I can possibly post it the way I'd like to.

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There are houses and then there are HOUSES...



Confessions of
a Cornwall Grad

Chapter 3

Author’s Note: *sobs* Yes it took over a year to add chapter 3. Mea culpa. Partly it was real life distracting me. Partly it was myself becoming obsessed with creating a whole world and not just another story.

Author’s Thank You’s: HUGE, HUGE thanks to Helena and Penni for embracing my madness and reading draft after draft. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you. I feel free to boot my patootie into Chapter 4, lol!

Disclaimer: You know the drill – With the exception of my gal Demter and assorted secondary original characters, JKR owns ‘em. I just mess about with them for a bit – purely profit free of course.

Minor Britpick Note: I tried to avoid too many Americanisms. And yes I know the counties no longer have to be included in postal addresses and the address included below is probably all kinds of wrong. All I can say is that I actually went to the Royal Mail website to learn about the UK address system and only came away with a headache (Why do your county lines keep moving? ) C’est la vie!

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The Drought is (Apparently) Over...

...or to put it another way, my muse has finally come back home, busted in the door, dropped her bags in the livingroom and demanded to know what's for dinner. So here's what I'm cookin':


CONFESSIONS OF A CORNWALL GRAD

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yes, I'm a bad writer. I should be finishing The Healer's Apprentice or Well, Done My Good and Faithful Servant or, for any Superman fans still out there, Love's Divine. But in case you haven't figured it out by now, I am my muse's bitch. She whips me, beats me and takes away my charge card at will. Hence my erratic output. On the other hand, she does like to fill out a universe. This story takes place between the events of The Healer's Apprentice and Well Done. The rest you can figure out from the text.

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We can’t all go to Hogwarts you know.



Doesn’t mean we want to wind up making change on the Knight Bus.



We’re not squibs. Thank gods. We might not have much magic but we still have some.



We never eat in the Great Hall, where even Hagrid gets a regular seat. That’s because we’re higher than the house elves and lower than the students. Unless you were really paying attention you’d never know we were there. Which makes it that much easier for the faculty to pretend that we aren’t. Still, Filch doesn’t eat with them. We’re above Filch. I suppose that’s some comfort.



We do have our own staff room which doubles as a dining room. It’s 50-50 whether we sleep over or not. Some of us have quarters and some of us come in from Hogsmeade everyday. I think the Hogsmeade folks have a better lot. After so many years I’ve started to feel like the spinster aunt in the attic.



I did have greater ambitions than this. I had hoped to work at Gringotts. The goblins seem to prefer us. Outside of the curse-breakers they really don’t like to have much truck with humans. When they can’t avoid hiring us, they like to pick those of us who are just this side of squibs. Unfortunately, I was beat out by that witch from Leicester. I’d been certain I’d come in first! But she beat me by 2 points.



Yes we take OWLS. Not NEWTS though. After OWLS we take another year in our specialty and then we’re free to make our way. My specialty was Magical Administration and Accounting. I’ve always loved numbers. They have their own magic. You could manipulate them as dexterously as a wand and create effects just as powerful.



I liked that feeling of power. When you don’t have enough magic to get into Hogwarts you take every little advantage you can get.



But as I said I didn’t score high enough for Gringotts. Wretched goblins.



But I got lucky. Uriah Sands, who’d grown up in Hogsmeade, told me that Hogwarts needed a new bursar. The old one apparently had had too much to say about staffers spending habits as he paid the school’s bills and especially when he handed out the bags of galleons that constituted the faculty’s monthly salaries. After getting himself hexed – they suspect it was a potion in the coffee; he’d have known to duck if he’d seen a wand – he was persuaded to take early retirement and a replacement was needed. Uriah had been at Cornwall with me in the stonemasons’ course before moving on to become a fellow of the Pythagorean College so he owled me. We’ve always been friends.



It was manna from heaven.



The interview was nerve-wracking but I survived – and even impressed the Deputy Headmistress with my no-nonsense attitude, which happily mirrored her own. The Headmaster was the final arbiter though. How I survived that audience I’ll never know. He is as fey as Minerva McGonagall is practical. He gives the impression of not knowing a knut from a Muggle nickel and seeming to believe that the castle runs on air. Of course it doesn’t. Even if the elves are all but enslaved to the school, there are still salaries to pay; storerooms to fill; plumbing, stone and windows to maintain. Somebody has to know when to order classroom equipment, medical supplies, and replacement Quidditch brooms. Somebody has to reconcile the accounts when the faculty overspends their budgets. No, it’s not transfiguration, or “foolish wand waving” or a “simmering cauldron.” But it keeps the candles lit and somebody has to pay attention to these things. Magic can’t do everything you know. I suspect the Headmaster knows this but likes to pretend he doesn’t. It makes it easier to play innocent with me when I have to negotiate with a creditor thanks to some extravagance of his or provide cover when the Board of Governors complains about an expense. If I never have to be in the same room as the oily blonde slick known as Lucius Malfoy it will be too soon!



But I don’t care about the Headmaster’s peccadilloes. He could dance on the ceiling with Peeves and charge tickets for all I care. It’d probably be a great fund-raiser if he did and maybe I’ll casually drop in conversation the next time we meet to do the budgets. For now though, it’s all about pleasing him. Keeping him happy is a small price to pay for the security of employment at Hogwarts. Other than Gringotts’ there’s no safer place to be. I have free room and board, which – if I watch my sickles – leaves me with plenty of money to salt away.



I can even to splurge on the occasional treat. I prefer to indulge in a little shopping in Diagon Alley or visit a day spa in the lush, green serenity of Mint Alley. But Uriah has been pressuring me to spend time with him in Hogsmeade. His parents still live there on their tidy little farm with the snug house. Uriah’s father was a stonemason too. Uriah Sr. built the house so it’ll take an attack from You-Know-Who himself to bring it down. I know what Uriah wants. And I should accept. What are the chances that I’ll do better?



And yet…



The thing none of the students or faculty ever say about Cornwall is that it’s the last refuge of diminished expectations. If Muggles have their Harvards and vocational schools, the wizard world has Hogwarts and Cornwall. Money never stops one from going to Hogwarts. I should know. Every year, I dip into the school’s treasury for the scholarship students myself. Always under Dumbledore’s orders of course. As I said we’re never allowed into the Great Hall to eat but we’re allowed to watch the Start of Year Feast and the Sorting Ceremony. Why we’re not allowed to stand unobtrusively along the walls and observe I’ll never know. Perhaps they fear we’ll leach the magic from the room. Perhaps they think the envy and frustration will finally get the better of us and we’ll pounce on the little First Years like vampires, sinking our teeth into their tender little necks and sucking the magic out of them. Ha. If only…No it’s not money that keeps students out of Hogwarts. It’s magical power levels. I and my kind are simply not good enough to enroll here. Full stop. Perhaps we were at one point, generations back along our family lines. But somewhere along the way, the magic started diminishing, decade after decade until, unlike grandpa who got into Hogwarts by the skin of his teeth, we are simply barred. That’s the story of my family anyway.



So we never say it out loud at Cornwall. Why? It depends. Cornwall students come in two flavors: those from families like mine where the magic is slowly leaking away and those from families of squibs whose magic is finally renewing itself. That is, some students come from families that are on the way up the ladder and others come from families that are on the way down. You’d think we could meet civilly somewhere in the middle. Instead the ones on the way down look down upon the ones on the way up. Not that I feel that way about Uriah. I’ve never had a truer friend. But his mother and his grandparents on both sides are squibs. And my mother made it clear the day we finally accepted that the Hogwarts letter was never going to come that I had a responsibility to marry as well as I could. That means finding someone stronger than me magically. And Uriah is strong. He’s a Pythagorean Fellow for goodness’ sakes. And although membership depends more on technical competence and mystical knowledge more than raw magic, it’s still prestigious.



But he’s not THAT much stronger than I. And a stonemason could never compare to a potions master.



Yes, I know, he’s completely out of my sphere. Even more than the Headmaster he looks like a mage from the dark ages, still basking in the afterglow left by Merlin’s departure. He could be a magical Mordred himself. He’s cutting and cruel and an absolute terror to children and colleagues alike. But the power ripples off him in waves. I can feel it prickling along my skin when I come into the Headmaster’s office and he’s still there. For all his surliness, they are close, he and the Headmaster.



He has no lover in Hogsmeade. Or if he has I haven’t heard of it. And I’ve kept watch. I’ve discreetly asked around. Never directly myself of course. Even though Uriah travels often and his parents are often overloaded with work on the farm, it’s just too risky. I can’t be caught. I can’t even be seen.



Because as I said, he’s out of my league.



If he has needs, he’s getting them met in Diagon Alley, although with his dark power I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Knockturn Alley. I don’t care. No I do care. If he’s trolling Knockturn Alley for his pleasures he won’t be able to do it forever. No matter how much he hates it, he’s still a teacher and can’t afford to let himself be seen as morally corrupt. From what I hear about his past, he can’t afford another mistake. In fact it’s his past that opens the door for me. If he truly was, as they say, a follower of You-Know-Who, it doesn’t matter that he switched sides and was pardoned. No decent witch of his class will have him. Otherwise he’d be married already. Because I’ve seen the way the other witches look at him, the female faculty members and the women in Hogsmeade. They don’t let him know they’re doing it but they look all the same. He’s magnetic. And he has no more control over it than he does over the color of his eyes. Clearly, one of them would have made a move after all these years if they weren’t afraid of being tarred by his reputation.



Yes, I know magnets repel as well as attract. But a determined woman with a critical need and a persistent attitude wouldn’t let that stop her. It’s snobbishness, plain and simple, that has kept him alone.



Well I can’t afford to have that kind of pride.



Even if I’d had it before, Cornwall would have beaten it out of me. It’s not that the teachers are cruel. In fact, I think they coddle us a little too much. They’re oh so eager to remind us that we’re all equal, that it’s the mage’s spirit and not his or her magic that counts. Well of course they’re lying – with good intentions but still lying. That’s not how the wizard world works. After all, not even Cornwall admits squibs. And while Hogwarts shelters in a powerfully warded castle fortress as students arrive on their dedicated train line, Cornwall students occupy a modest manor house in the shadow of the ruins of Tintagel and make their way there as best they can by portkey, floo, or even Muggle transport. It’s only the first years who take the Knight bus. Once they’ve had a year for the naivety to wash off, they follow the manner of the older students who take the Knight bus only when they have to and only at night. It’s bad enough that we have to spend five years scrabbling around the remains of Camelot dreaming of a glory our families will never have or will never have again. But the Knight Bus is just too much. We may not have gotten into Hogwarts but none of us wanted to become Stan Shunpike.



Uriah never seemed to care though. He’s always been too laid back for his own good. Truthfully, he really shouldn’t be wasting his time with me. He doesn’t have to. He’s a Pythagorean Fellow. It’s not a Hogwarts certificate but it’s close enough without actually having attended. There’s a certain delicacy in the magic it takes to erect stone buildings, a certain subtlety, believe it or not. Not every wizard can master it. Those who do are quite respected. Still, I never see him casting a wandering eye over the seventh year girls when he comes for his annual inspection of Hogwarts’ foundations. He only ever seems to have eyes for me.



Such a romantic.



When he comes he always manages to meet me for lunch. And always before he goes he manages to get me to his parents’ house for dinner. His parents’ house is so…different. They’re no richer than my family, yet somehow they manage to be…happy…



I fear I will never understand Uriah.



But the sour lines on Severus Snape’s face striking face bespeak of anger; resentment; deprivation; and pain. Not just of dark, nefarious deeds but of scrabbling for far too much although equipped with far too little. The grinding frustration of years of laboring under scarcities too big crammed into rooms too small.



Him I understand.



So forgive me Uriah but I have to try. Perhaps you won’t have to. But if you never have to that means I’ve failed and I don’t intend to fail. Some needs are basic: the need for food and rest; the need for respectability and sex. The last two are the hardest to find to any satisfaction. And for this man, they’re nigh on impossible. Good. That means he’ll need me. I’m not a Hogwarts girl but then he was never going to get that anyway. And he’s too proud to be with a squib or a Muggle, not openly, not for any reason other than physical gratification, to scratch an itch. I’ll let him scratch and I’ll keep him from looking like a letcher while he does it. After all, that’s what wives are for isn’t it?



Oh yes, he’ll resist. But I’m willing to wait. And negotiate. I took a whole course on it. It was taught by a Gringott’s goblin so I learned from the best.



What’s his alternative? Prey on the seventh years? I’ve seen his eyes wander more than once to a girl in his own house. I’ve heard the faculty talking. She’s one of his favorites – apparently innocently because the faculty would never be able to sit on such a bombshell. I don’t need their corroboration though because I know two things. First, he worships the Headmaster so he’d fear to lose his trust. Second, he’s too cunning to court the headmaster’s wrath. Add in the fact that he can’t make a habit of going to Knockturn Alley and that leaves me – just a few floors above his dungeon and with a fireplace connected to the castle’s internal floo network.



Oh yes, I’ll wait as he winds himself up tighter and tighter. And I’ll look good while I’m doing it. The epitome of respectability. That was the whole point of the charitable witches and wizards who put up the donations that established Cornwall back in 1628. They had to do something with the children who had just enough magic to avoid being called squibs but not enough to go to Hogwarts. They needed to be disciplined, taught a trade, socially groomed on how to properly relate to their betters. They needed respectability.



I can’t do a simple wingardium leviosa but damned if I aren’t respectable.



Don’t hate me Uriah.



You of all people should understand.



You were at Cornwall too.

Konichiwa Snape-san

Howdy!

Happy New Year!

I'm still pecking away at chapter 4 of Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant. However, I still have a bunch of random thoughts rattling around in my brain which I have to express or my head will explode. ...Okay not literally but you get the picture.

Samurai Snape: I've been reading ObsidianEmbrace's excellent fan fic Lily's Charm and Rieve's equally riveting Ghosts and Unfinished Games as well as a whole variety of Severitus fan fic and they've got my brain churning. I've been trying to understand Snape, to figure out his basic psychology. From an astrological standpoint, he's got deeply Scorpionic and Saturnine tendencies. But today it occurs to me: Snape is what you get if you asked William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens to come up with a baby wizard, gave him a loving kiss from Faust and handed him over to a samurai to raise.

His ability to handle the extremes of terror and pain is breathtaking. His ability to handle them with stoicism and haughty disdain is equally so. I am not well educated on Japanese tradition or customs. However, like millions around the world, I am fascinated by the samurai. To me, they were larger than life, bespeaking a nobility that I can hardly conceive of in my comparatively hedonistic Western existence. No, that's not necessarily an objective sentiment, but that's how I feel. To me, the samurai were the type of men who could look the worst possible scenario in the eye and not flinch. When death was the only way out, they didn't fold or beg. They went out as strongly, proudly and unrepentantly they stormed in.

To me, that's Severus Snape.

On another note: Rieve also has an excellent short story called Beltane which is absolutely fantastic. In fact, it's given me an idea on how to handle Snape in my story, Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant. Chapter 4 remains delayed because I had an amazing brainstorm partially inspired by Beltane the story and the custom. If you've read Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon, you'll have some idea of where I'm headed. That idea is forcing me to revise Chapter 4. So please hang in there with me. I'm still plugging away.

Chapter 3 Is Ready!

Well shockeroo, I've written Chapter 3 of my little fan fic, Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant. Whoo-hoo! See what you can do when you binge on Harry Potter movies all day? Of course, my Superman fan fic, Love's Divine, still languishes. In the unlikely chance anyone besides myself is reading this AND is interested in Love's Divine, don't fear. I've actually started rewriting the start of Chapter 4. Once that's done, I will post it rather than wait until I write all 5 scenes of that chapter.

Meanwhile, please enjoy the latest installment of Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant.

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Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant

Chapter 3

Summary: In reward for service, Voldemort gives Snape something he’s desired seemingly forever.

Disclaimer: Original characters are mine, all else is the glorious property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my use of her characters.

Rating: R -- Includes implied violence and sexual situation. Not suitable for readers under 17. You have been warned. Please do not read if this type of material offends you. Thank you.
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It had been a long night.

Voldemort was nothing if not thorough – a trait Severus shared, which perhaps went some way to explain the Dark Lord’s infernal favor towards him. Voldemort had not dismissed the potions master until the first rays of dawn began slicing across the sky.

Severus slowly lifted himself off of his student. She wasn’t conscious. With hands trembling from exhaustion and emotions that self-preservation refused to let him name, he sought and found his discarded clothing and began to dress.

Most of the other Death Eaters had long since abandoned the place after Voldemort had given them leave to find their own amusement. A few stragglers remained, sprawled on the grass. They lay sleeping where they’d fallen after groping then servicing each other, inspired by the previous night’s exhibition.

Severus closed his eyes as his stomach lurched. Reflexively, his mind began sorting though the contents of his potions stores. Dreamless Sleep. Bottled Obliviate. Trauma Release. Aura Re-sealer. He mentally made a note to replenish the stock. None would last the day, not if he ever hoped to sleep again.

Voldemort himself had only just left. He’d spent the night lounging on his now empty “throne” as Bellatrix danced attendance. If he wanted food she brought it. If he was thirsty, she held the cup as he drank. If he needed other pleasures, she provided those too with a relish that would have revolted Severus if he hadn’t already exceeded his limits.

He fastened the last button at his collar and bent to retrieve his cloak. He shook the dust and dirt from it and spread it wide as he advanced on Ophelia. There was no question of leaving her here. It was understood that he would take her with him. Voldemort would expect Severus to personally see the Dark Lord’s plan fully executed. So for the next nine months Ophelia was his.

Nothing flickered on his face as his gaze caught the gray-mottled bruises and jagged red edges of dried cuts against her white skin. She was still breathing. But then that had been the plan. He spread the cloak over her and gathered her up. Her body fell limply into his arms.

For a split-second, the memory of his mother’s old rag doll flashed through his mind. It had been a memento, a prize won for her during her courtship with the Muggle man, his father, whose marriage to his mother had caused her wizard family to disown her. The summer Severus had returned from his first year at Hogwarts, his head buzzing with notions of pure-blood sanctity, he’d stolen the doll and thrown it into the alley behind the house. That hadn’t satisfied him though. So he’d gone back out later that night and tossed it around before discarding it once more. When the loss was discovered, his mother had been so distraught that he’d slunk outside yet again to retrieve it. And he had found it. The arms and legs had been dangling by threads, three strands of yarn hair hung from its torn cloth scalp, and wads of stuffing had trickled sadly from the holes ripped in its body.

He’d brought the thing back to her, little more than a pile of scraps in his thin hands. For one horrified, guilty moment he’d nearly laughed as he’d handed it to her. His mother was weeping over scraps. He knew she would try, use all her non-wizard skill – for his father had forbidden doing magic in the house – to salvage it. But he knew it was hopeless. If she hadn’t been crying so hard, he would have told her so. But his throat had closed and the words wouldn’t come. So he’d said nothing and retreated to his room, his blurred vision making him stumble along the way.

Holding Ophelia close, he blinked but his eyes remained clear.

They remained so when he stepped out of the fireplace with her into Dumbledore’s office. Nothing changed as he faced the startled headmaster and gave the briefest possible report before floo’ing with her again, Dumbledore on his heels, to Madame Pomfrey’s infirmary. They remained hard and cold and clear as he answered Pomfrey’s questions.

“Yes, she has the Feratu Cuts,” he said quietly.

Pomfrey gasped and instantly erected the magical shield she’d need to treat them, even as he assured her that the school also had the requisite supply of Aura Re-sealer.

“Were you the only one?” Pomfrey asked as she continued running her diagnostic spells.

“No, there were several who sampled her.”

From the corner of his eye, Severus could see Albus blanch and stare at him. Severus ignored him.

“No I mean for the other…” Pomfrey said grimly.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I was the only one.”

She nodded once and continued working.

The two men stood in silence as she worked. The infirmary was empty. Severus didn’t recall Albus warning Pomfrey of the need for discretion but he could think of no other reason for the absence of the usual post-weekend Quidditch casualties. He exhaled gratefully. He had no mental energy left to rebuff the curiosity of a stray student and explanations would have been impossible.

Without comment, Pomfrey closed the cuts and spoke the spell that would begin to heal them. She summoned a bottle of Aura Re-sealer and began dabbing it on Ophelia’s wounds, shaking her head worriedly. “I’ve never treated such dark magic cuts,” she muttered distractedly. She waved her wand again, pulled the blanket over Ophelia then stepped away, pulling the bed curtains closed.

She faced the two men. “Her energy is still bleeding out of her,” she said. “If the Re-sealer doesn’t stop it in the next hour, we’ll have to move her to where she can be protected. I won’t be able to shield her here.”

Severus and Albus nodded, neither able to summon a verbal reply.

Pomfrey stared at them for a moment. “Headmaster, you look unwilling and Prof. Snape looks unable, so I’m assuming that I won’t get a full explanation of how Miss Broomall was…injured, is that correct?”

Severus’ lips parted but no sound came out.

Dumbledore came to his rescue. “I think not, Poppy,” he said softly. “At least not today.”

Pomfrey nodded. “Well then,” she said briskly. “If you’ll just step this way professor.” She reached for the potions master.

“No!”

The nurse and headmaster stared in surprise as Severus all but jumped back, his black eyes glittering dangerously. Belatedly catching himself he spoke calmly if coldly. “Thank you, Madame Pomfrey, I am fine. I am in no need of assistance.”

“Forgive me, Severus, but I must disagree,” Dumbledore countered gently.

Severus almost winced at the effort it took to meet Dumbledore’s calm blue gaze. With a start he realized his eyes were hot and that, without realizing it, he had backed himself against a wall.

“Severus,” Dumbledore continued. “You and your student have suffered extensive exposure to very dark, and, if my suspicions are correct, very old magic. I would be remiss in my duty as headmaster if I didn’t see that both of you received adequate medical care.”

The headmaster stepped closer, extending a hand but taking care not to touch. “Please let Poppy examine you.”

“I’m not a child, Albus,” Severus snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Dumbledore and Pomfrey exchanged a glance. Dumbledore took another step closer. “Yes, Severus, you are,” he said soothingly. “Far too young to understand an old man’s fetches but could you at least humor me? Please?”

“Headmaster!” Pomfrey hissed worriedly.

Dumbledore shook his head sharply, his gaze still focused on the wary potions master. ”Please, Severus?” he repeated.

Severus stared at the frail-looking old man. He knew from hard experience that Dumbledore was anything but frail. In its own way, the force of Dumbledore’s will rivaled Voldemort’s. He could feel that force weighing on him now. Pressure settled in his chest and throat and he could feel sweat breaking out across his skin. Foolishly, childishly, he flattened himself against the wall as if he could evade it. As if a wall could stop Dumbledore.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but the air seemed to grow drier and hotter until it hurt to draw breath. Where was his occlumency training? He had used legilimency on Ophelia the night before. Had the process somehow made him forget how to do the opposite?

Beside Dumbledore, he could see Pomfrey had her wand outstretched and aimed at him but the headmaster’s arm barred her.

Why couldn’t he focus? His eyes narrowed at her. He felt a rush of anger – or was it heat? – surge through him. Was she bewitching him?

Dumbledore’s voice pulled Severus’ attention back toward the headmaster.

“Please, Severus,” he coaxed. “Let Poppy look at you.”

This was foolish, Severus thought. Dumbledore would simply pester him until he agreed. He pulled away from the wall, drawing himself up in an attempt project some semblance of dignity.

“Fine,” he snapped, then blinked as Dumbledore’s hand closed on his own. When had the headmaster gotten close enough to touch him, he wondered.

And then he screamed.

0oo00oo00oooo

Pomfrey and Dumbledore leapt forward as Severus fell to his knees. With surprising strength the nurse and old man attempted to pull the younger man to his feet, but it was no use. Severus folded in on himself, writhing and crumpling as if bespelled by the Cruciatus curse.

Mutual fear synchronized Pomfrey and Dumbledore’s motions as they waved their wands simultaneously. Pomfrey threw a sleeping spell at him as Dumbledore muttered “Leviocorpus.” Abruptly, the screams stopped, Severus went limp, and his body rose, floated toward one of the hospital beds and landed gently on its surface.

For a moment, Dumbledore and Pomfrey stared at him, breathing heavily from their exertions.

“I tried to tell you,” Pomfrey said finally. “He’s burning.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “I know.”

More Harry Potter Fan Fiction

Well I guess that wasn't the end.

I've written another installment of this story. I don't know how many chapters it will contain. I'm just following my muse -- and my love of Snape! I still haven't figured out where this story would fit in the canon time scale. But it assumes the information regarding the relationship between the potions master and Lily Evans is true.

Hope you like it. (Heck, hope you find it.) And if you're feeling so generous please leave a review.

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Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant
By Librasmile

Summary: In reward for service, Voldemort gives Snape something he’s desired seemingly forever.

Disclaimer: Original characters are mine, all else is the glorious property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my use of her characters.

Rating: R -- Includes implied violence and sexual situation. Not suitable for readers under 17. You have been warned. Please do not read if this type of material offends you. Thank you.

Chapter 2

It was an art, this.

In the Dark Lord’s world, the giving and receiving of pain was a high art, and Severus knew its most adept practitioner was measuring his every step as he advanced on his “gift.”

With a whisper of sound the black fabric of his cloak slid from his shoulders as he walked. He left it discarded on the ground. He moved deliberately with the prowling gait he used to intimidate his students. Years of espionage had made it almost soundless but no less menacing. His mind began the automatic ritual of dividing itself. With no conscious effort, he mentally hived off the battered, bruised but still human part of himself that shouted, pleaded, begged him to stop. Then he brought forward the detached, coldly clinical observer to which he retreated in order to perform his most heinous tasks. Of course, an assignment from Voldemort was never just a task. It was usually an atrocity, an ordained sin. He began to unbutton his collar.

His hands shook.

That physical fact almost stopped him. He faltered for a moment, the briefest moment, then continued, but he was sure Voldemort noticed the lapse. There was no cure for it but to keep moving. So he did.

As he approached the altar he stopped. Slowly, like a jeweler considering the precise point at which to start cutting the diamond, he circled the stone. Behind and around him, he heard the murmurs of his fellow Death Eaters as their level of anticipation rose. Aside from his status as one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal servants, Severus knew he had a reputation among them for having a certain macabre flair. He had earned it thanks to the exacting and bloody work he’d made of Voldemort’s victims in those damning years before he’d found his way back to the light. He had not always needed to kill, but when he did it had been shamefully easy for him. He was thorough. He’d made an art of it. A clean art.

While some of Voldemort’s followers made a habit of toying sexually with their prey before killing them, he had always abstained. Unable to leave until an assignment was completed, he had stood aside and watched, unable to mask his distaste. He had never had the courage to really examine why they had let him get away with this. No matter. The tables had turned. Now Severus would be the one to play while they watched. He knew his fellow Death Eaters were practically salivating at the prospect of watching him take her. If he did well, then they would at least see their smug colleague brought down to their level. If not, Voldemort would kill him and open up a space for someone else to advance. Either way, they were certain to be thoroughly entertained. There was a rustling as some of the Death Eaters moved closer, unwilling to miss a second of the performance.

As he completed his circuit, Severus’ eyes skimmed over Ophelia’s body. He noted the blood. There was a cut. Several. Just enough to give pain but not to kill. His gaze followed the seeping trails back to their original wounds. Ah. They had made the Feratu Cuts. Of course. And she was a pureblood. The temptation would have been too much to resist. Mesmerized, he extended his hand. He trailed a finger though her blood then brought it to his mouth. Inside himself, his shackled humanity howled. Outside, he shivered and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. The magic imbued in the salty fluid jolted his tongue. How many of his audience had already tasted her, he wondered. Only the select few would be allowed, he knew. But the full meal would be his.

Opening his eyes, he studied her face. Her profile was still. Long tendrils of her hair obscured it. He moved closer. He needed to see her eyes. He climbed atop the altar. She was either too dazed or too tightly bound to resist. Straddling her on his hands and knees, he brought his face level to hers. The panels of the dark high-collared coat he’d unbuttoned hung on either side of him, brushing against her. He could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. He brushed her hair away. She flinched. So. She was still awake in there. She turned her face from him. He grabbed her chin and forced her back. Her eyes, only half open, closed.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She squeezed her lids tighter.

The palm of his open hand cracked against her skin. She gasped as the force of the blow whipped her head in the opposite direction. Malicious laughter rippled among the crowd around them. He heard Bellatrix’ manic, high-pitched peal among them. Again, he forced Ophelia to face him.

“Look at me.”

She opened her eyes.

And then he felt it. The power in the stone. He’d felt it humming with energy from the second he’d touched it. He’d assumed the dark magic of the Feratu Cuts was doing its work, draining her energy for others to consume. But nothing wizard-invoked could be this powerful. Gods, what more was his master planning? His eyes flicked up and away from Ophelia’s face to find Voldemort’s. The Dark Lord’s smile widened. Severus suppressed a shudder and returned his gaze to the woman beneath him.

Ophelia was watching him.

For a moment he was impaled by the intensity in her eyes.

In the last year he had become afraid to look directly into her eyes for too long. It was embarrassing really. He was an expert Occlumens. He had no excuse for his weakness. But it was hard to erect mental walls against the very thing you most wanted to touch. And he had too many secrets he feared he could not hide. The fire with which he’d incinerate Marius Bentlow if his conscience would let him. The raw, still bleeding wound that held his grief over Lily. The hollow knowledge that he was – and most likely would end his life, sooner rather than later – alone.

Worst of all there was his unfilled hunger for her. The shameful acceptance that this craving would have made the man he used to be abandon his self-imposed restrictions and pounce before Voldemort could even think to issue a command. And the bitter comprehension that no amount of repentance or longing could ever make him the kind of man to whom a woman could safely pledge her life. Ultimately, Lily knew this, he realized, although they had never gone this far. No matter. Here lay the proof before the argument could even have been made. He had hid from Ophelia because he was afraid she would see too much of his charred soul.

But he could not hide now…even as her eyes still speared him.

Lily had looked at him like that. For each step he’d taken when he’d gone down the dark path, he could recall the anguish in Lily’s eyes. He could recall perfectly the times and the places he’d seen it, feel the invisible burns it had left on him. How many times had he seen that look before she had finally given up on him? He swallowed audibly, the sound thankfully lost beneath the clamor of the mob. Voldemort had served him up another feast of loss.

Belatedly he realized he had settled his body on Ophelia’s. She was pinned, although the bonds on her wrists made that a redundancy. His hands had begun undoing her clothing. It was Muggle style. So they had snatched her outside of Hogwarts then. He saw the goose flesh rise on her skin as he exposed her to the cool night air. Her breath quickened and terror etched itself across her face but she didn’t look away. He no longer needed to force her. She didn’t want to risk him hitting her again. Ever the quick student.

He slid his hands across her bare flesh. She shivered. So did he. Somewhere inside himself, something dark he’d failed to subdue crawled forward to savor the sensation, heedless of whatever evil brought it. He leaned down to kiss her and, despite her fear, she closed her eyes. He saw her muscles tense as she braced herself for another hit. Instead he whispered against her mouth. “Keep them open.” She obeyed.

Without warning he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She winced but he couldn’t spare her even a hint of reassurance. These ghouls wanted pain. They wanted blood. Beneath him, he could feel Ophelia’s breathing escalate; she was hyperventilating. He fastened his teeth onto her throat. At that she cried out. The crowd around them roared their approval. That’s why he almost didn’t hear her when she spoke, gasping and choking out the words.

“Please,” she begged. “I’m not Lily. I’m not Lily!”

He stared at her in horror. Gods, could she hear his thoughts? And why would she think…That dark thing in his mind, that repellent, starving thing that was enjoying this, spoke quietly, malevolently. You know why. The words reverberated through his mind, bouncing off the confines of his own skull, crashing into each other until they hit their mark. He did know. He didn’t want to. But he did.

He started to shake. Then, with a ruthless effort he made himself stop.

It didn’t matter, he realized coldly, huddling inside himself.

Crudely, he placed his hand over her face, gripping her jaw, covering her mouth. He could stop her words, he noted dully. And other things as well. Her eyes widened. His gaze drilled into hers. He drew a breath to say the spell.

“Legilimens,” he whispered.

To Be Continued?

My Harry Potter Fan Fiction

Okay, I'm still surfing the unemployment blues. During this enforced hiatus I've finally gotten around to reading the entire Harry Potter series. Wow! Now I see what the fuss was all about. I am totally stoked for the next movie and I'm thoroughly enamored of Snape. In fact I've been sooo fiending for Snape that I had to troll the 'Net looking for Snape fan fiction. I went on a fan fiction binge this weekend and finally decided to write my own little story posted below.

This story takes place after the Half-Blood Prince, I think. I'm really weak on keeping things in canon so it's probably a free for all in my story, lol.

Enjoy!
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Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant

Summary: In reward for service, Voldemort gives Snape something he’s desired seemingly forever.

Disclaimer: Original characters are mine, all else is the glorious property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my use of her characters.

Rating: R -- Includes implied violence and sexual situation. Not suitable for readers under 17. You have been warned. Please do not read if this type of material offends you. Thank you.

Among his sixth or seventh year advanced students there is a favorite of Snape’s. Her name is Ophelia Broomall. She should have been in Ravenclaw. But he’s very pleased she wound up in his house. She is a joy to teach. And joy is not a word Snape would use lightly even in his own head. Like Hermione Granger, she’s a brilliant potions student. Unlike Hermione she doesn’t feel the need to let everyone know it. She is a quiet girl, a pureblood who, like Tom Riddle, wound up in a Muggle orphanage. She was sent to Hogwarts on scholarship.

Snape not only considers her one of his favorite students…he’s developed feelings for her. He doesn’t dare name them. But the last time he felt anything like this was when Lily Potter was alive. And that terrifies him. So he’s very careful to keep a proper distance. But she is an orphan and a very gifted student. So when she comes to Hogwarts in little more than rags and is sorted into Slytherin he takes the initiative to ask Professor McGonagall to help her find some decent clothes. And when she shines in his class he always makes a point of saying “Well done, Miss Broomall.” No more than that, mind you. He’s even careful to then follow up with another challenge just so that no one can accuse him of playing favorites.

But in his mind, he’s christened her his little Raven.

She’s now in his NEWTS class. And it’s the consensus of the faculty that she would make an excellent healer. The younger Slytherins are always chasing her down when they have minor stomach upsets or nosebleeds, usually from something they shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Rather than go to Madam Pomfrey and risk being reported to Snape, they go to her. She never tells unless it’s absolutely serious. He turns a blind eye.

The older Slytherins are not quite as trusting. In fact, they don’t trust her at all. When she first came to Hogwarts, she had all the traits of a student who would wind up in Ravenclaw. She had their insatiable curiosity, their keen intelligence and intellectualism, their expansive imaginations, and their tendency toward the abstract. Yet, the sorting hat put her in Slytherin, the house of ambition and arrogance and no little fascination with the Dark Arts. Everyone was shocked, including Snape. And when she joined the Slytherin table her table mates glared at her with suspicion. Since then they’ve treated her like the enemy. The Slytherins in her own year tend to bully her and Snape has had to suspend several in punishment. Fortunately for her, none have ever been expelled on her account. He feared it would go extremely badly for her if anyone had. And Snape can’t monitor her 24 hours a day.

So Snape makes it his mission to do as much as he can to make sure she has a secure future. If she were a boy he might not be quite as protective. But a young lady with no family to protect her is particularly vulnerable. He would hate to see anything happen to her. So Snape recommends her for further studies at St. Mungo’s and asks Dumbledore to recommend her as well. Dumbledore happily does so. She is accepted before she even graduates Hogwarts. Her professional future is set.

And, loathe though he is to admit it, so is her personal future.

She has found a suitor in one of the Slytherin prefects. He’s a good boy of respectable family and an excellent student although not in his Raven’s league. When Snape became aware of this he came up with a pretext to haul the boy into his office and have a talk with him about how to treat young ladies. Ophelia’s name was never mentioned but they both knew what they were talking about. To his relief and disappointment, the boy gave him every indication and assertion that he would treat Ophelia as she deserved; he believed him.

Snape rested secure in the conviction that he had done everything he could to ensure Ophelia’s future.

And then it all goes down in flames.

Voldemort summons Snape to a meeting of the Death Eaters. He wishes to conduct an experiment and he requires Snape’s service. Of course Snape bows his head, “Whatever my lord requires,” is his response. “Good, good” Voldemort says silkily. Accompanied by Belletrix Lestrange, he leads Snape to a dark chamber filled with Death Eaters. As usual they are in a circle. Curiously, there is a pool of light in the center of the circle and what looks like a long stone altar. As he approaches, he hears snickering and Belletrix gets a fiendish gleam in her eyes. And then he sees her.

Ophelia, his Raven, tied to the block of stone.

He wants to fall down. He wants to throw up. He wants to kill them all and snatch her off that stone and away to safety. He can’t do any of these things. He can’t even blink an eye. He has to remain as detached and cold as he always is among the Death Eaters. They must think she is nothing to him. Or, if she is anything, she is a toy he’d like to play with.

And then he realizes: that’s it. Someone knows. Not what he does for Dumbledore but what she is to him. How they know he can’t fathom. Automatically his mind races through the possibilities and with an effort he stops it. Now is not the time to think of that. Now he has to find a way to free Ophelia without letting Voldemort and his followers think he cares anything about her.

He doesn’t even want to spare a thought as to what they might have done to her. If he, even for one second contemplates those possibilities, he will fling himself howling onto Voldemort and do his best to kill him.

So he remains still. And before he can speak, Voldemort saves him the effort of having to come up with something innocuous.

“I have not forgotten your fidelity, Snape. I reward those who serve me well. Of course, any reward must serve the greater purpose.”

Nothing, not an eyebrow, flickers on Snape’s face, though his eyes never move from the sight before him. “Of course, my lord.” His mind kicks in; perhaps Voldemort will reveal a weakness. “How may I serve your purpose?”

“I require a body.”

Discreetly, Snape swallows past the bile in his throat.

“A female body, my lord?” he chances to ask. “Not even grown. Of what use can she be to you my lord?”

Voldemort smiles. Beside him so does Belletrix. Snape can feel her gaze poring over every detail of his face, looking for…something.

“I should clarify,” Voldemort says. “I require a child.”

The minutest of frowns appears on Snape’s face. Beside him he can hear Belletrix’ swift intake of breath. The sound is like an invisible breeze, too far away from the other Death Eaters to register it. But Snape hears it.

His mind is racing. A child? If that’s what he needs why hasn’t he procured one instead of taking Ophelia? Then his stomach lurches. He swears Belletrix can sense it. He wants to sire a child. Oh gods, oh gods…But it isn’t possible. Voldemort has a body but it isn’t fully functional yet. He could hardly stand, let alone father a child.

Beside him, in his peripheral vision, he can see Belletrix, still staring at him, as she licks her lips and bares her teeth.

“To what end, my lord?” Snape says finally.

“The Boy Who Lived remains a plague on my soul. I created him, to my cost, the only thing that can threaten me. If I can create one, I can create another.”

And then Snape turns his head to look at Voldemort, astonishment clearly written on his face.

“And this one, will be mine.”

Beside him, a maniacal grin erupts across Belletrix’ face.

“Look at her. She’s beautiful,” Voldemort observes.

Belletrix’ smile falters and she glances nervously back at Voldemort who ignores her.

“A pureblood,” Voldemort continues. “A worthy mother. Who requires a worthy father.”

And now Voldemort returns Snape’s gaze. His smile sends tendrils of fear snaking through Snape’s blood. And then Snape utters the rarest of phrases for him.

“I don’t understand.” But the truth is he understands perfectly. The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, is the only thing that can defeat Voldemort. And Voldemort himself created him by attacking him as an infant. His mother lost her life shielding her son from that blast and put on him the charm that protects him from Voldemort even now. And now he knows, as Snape has always suspected, that some part of Voldemort went into Harry; Voldemort’s attack placed it there. If Voldemort can create one powerful threat, surely he can create another. Impregnate the mother with the seed of a servant loyal to him, who can be counted on to stand aside, to throw the mother into the path of Voldemort’s wand when the Dark Lord comes to kill.

The truth is he understands. He simply does not wish to believe.

“You will create a weapon for me, Snape, one that I shall raise and train to serve me well.”

Snape’s mind is spinning faster than almost he can follow and yet he manages to say, “Forgive me, my lord, but the time frame. A baby cannot fight a war. Potter is a threat now.”

He almost blanches as Voldemort’s eyes narrow. “Do you doubt my ability to defeat Potter?”

Immediately Snape bows his head. “Never my lord. But may I not serve you better immediately than to wait nine months for the birth of a child who must be nurtured for yet again at least seven more years before he is of any use to you?”

Voldemort smiles almost fondly. “Loyal Snape. ” He reaches out a cold hand and lifts Snape’s chin so that the Slytherin Head Master meets his gaze. “Fear not. I have more immediate efforts in the making for which I will summon you. But for now, do my bidding and allow me to reward my faithful servant even as he helps me to achieve my ends.”

Snape turned his head back to where Ophelia lay.

And if he doesn’t allow Voldemort to “reward” him, his mind asks. What then? He suppressed a shudder. He knew what the Death Eaters did to those who were no longer of use. That Ophelia still breathed, that her body, what he could see of it, was relatively unscathed, was nothing short of a miracle. But then she was still of use to Voldemort. Are there not any worthier candidates, my lord? The question arose in his mind and he quashed it. If he asked, he opened the door to Voldemort actually considering another candidate. At that point Ophelia’s life would last as long as it took to find someone else. Which still didn’t explain why Voldemort had chosen Ophelia. Gods, why her of all people?! Voldemort’s “rewards” were never simple, never straightforward. There was always a sting in the tail.

As he gazed at Ophelia, he saw her suddenly heave once as if struggling to breathe. He betrayed no emotion. But he knew it was unlikely, undamaged as she appeared to be, that the Death Eaters would have left her entirely unmolested. Unmolested. His stomach lurched at that word.

“Snape.”

As if in a trance, he turned back to Voldemort.

“Have you not desired her from the beginning?” he asked, almost kindly.

Snape turned back to Ophelia. Oh but she had blossomed this year! The skinny child with over large eyes and too heavy hair had finally filled out and grown into her own beauty. The bullying of her Slytherin classmates had declined as her attractiveness grew. He had feared it would start again as she rebuffed their sexual advances. But her relationship with Marius Bentlow had drawn her under his protection. They might grumble, but they’d never dare lay a finger on Marius’ girl. Whether they had become intimate he did not know. He’d refused to let his mind dwell on the possibility. He knew though that it was likely to happen sooner rather than later. As it should. She was a young woman, with a bright future. And if she’d had any family to weigh in on the issue, he felt sure that they would have urged her to find a potential spouse at Hogwarts. A Hogwarts graduate, after all, came with a certain cachet, the wizarding world’s stamp of approval as it were. And how many marriages occurred within the years of graduation? He had lost count. Nor were the faculty above encouraging such matches. A marriage between Hogwarts students more frequently than not led to the enrollment of yet more Hogwarts students as the couples sent their offspring to the school where they’d found their happiness.

He’d refused to even consider letting his own desire impede that natural progression.

Never mind that he’d destroyed half his potions cabinet when he’d learned she was dating Marius. Nor would he remember how he’d tossed and turned with dreams he’d be too ashamed to recall even to himself until he’d broken down and pulled from its hiding place the photo of Lily Evans. If Ophelia had had red hair instead of black and green eyes instead of blue, he would have understood his desires better. For she had the same intelligence, the same wit, the same sparkle as Lily. But she looked nothing like Lily. She was not Lily. And yet, just by her presence, she’d unwittingly reopened old wounds, brought him face to face again with the longing and the loss he thought he’d buried for good. He never thought he’d feel that warmth again. And then the Sorting Hat had sent it straight to Slytherin House.

In no reality had he ever expected her to be his.

Why hadn’t he thought about this nightmarish possibility?

“Yes. I want her.”

Beside him Belletrix’ smile widened again at the naked hunger that roared to life in his eyes.

Voldemort smiled almost benevolently. “Then my servant, do my bidding.”

Snape turned back to the altar stone. And then he saw him. There, among the Death Eaters standing opposite, Marius Bentlow, his face unmasked.

He was not surprised. How odd, he thought. Perhaps it was because some small part of him had always thought, no feared, that it was too good to be true, the détente between Ophelia and her fellow Slytherins, the appearance of a fiancé. No one’s life is that easy, Snape knew, even if they’re receiving help from the highest ranks of Hogwarts’ faculty.

In another time and place, he would curse the blood from Marius’ body.

But this time and place demanded a choice from him. He could refuse Voldemort’s command and seal both his and Ophelia’s death sentences as well as endanger Potter, Dumbledore and the entire Order of the Phoenix. Or he could do his master’s will and, Merlin willing, buy Ophelia nine more months of life.

He started walking toward her, discarding his robe as he moved.

O, my Raven, forgive me this evil I’m about to do to you.


The End?